Early Hours
by idearlylovealaugh
Summary: Not long after hearing life-altering news, Ron considers the confusing nature of change. A continuation of "You Go First", but can stand alone. For Jenn582.


_A/N: Not JKR._ _This was written for jenn582, who is literally the best reader that a fic writer could ever hope for (and is also funny as hell). She was kind enough to say that she liked "You Go First" and suggested a sequel, so here it is in honor of her birthday! About 2K of extreme fluff and smut, hopefully in the same style as the original. And only about 5 days late! :D_

Moonlight soaked their nearly-silent bedroom, spilling through the open curtains behind him and splashing heavy shadows on the walls. The nights were so different in the country - no raucous crowds spilling out of the pubs at half eleven, no cats knocking over the rubbish bins, no suspicious thumping from the flat upstairs. But Ron always thought the emptiness seemed to have a sound of it's own, beyond even the crickets and nocturnal creatures; the vast expanse of the countryside slipping through open windows to fill the corners with a sometimes oppressive sense of space. Tonight, though, he noticed nothing but the slow, steady breathing of his wife, the reassuring hum and faint whistle of every exhale.

They had lingered together on the sofa until long after the sun had sank, hearts overfull of thoughts and emotions that didn't always make it into words. What conversation they had was hushed and reverent as they started to absorb the news that would alter the course of their lives forever. When Hermione began to yawn drowsily, Ron had insisted they head to bed - but not, for him, to sleep.

From where he lay in the bed behind her his eyes traced the curve of her shoulder, her body so familiar to him and yet tonight, completely different in an almost ineffable way. Shadows pooled beneath the planes and in the valleys of her face, but he could easily fill in the features obscured by darkness. Every part of her was so indelibly inked into his mind… but, he acknowledged, this wasn't the only version of Hermione that had ever existed for him. He had known her since the age of eleven, that little girl so different from the woman before him. And he planned to be with her, if the fates were kind, until they were wrinkled and gray. But _this_ change, now, in the sweet, hoped-for years in-between, was bound up with more excitement, uncertainty, and anticipation than he could have ever imagined.

Would he notice every day, he wondered? Or would the changes be so gradual and subtle that he could barely tell the difference, until one day he would be shocked to find how far his arms had to travel to wrap around her middle? The situation they were in was so new to him as to be almost incomprehensible, but _that_ would be well-traveled ground for him - that feeling of knowing her so well, of seeing her nearly every day and yet sometimes still being suddenly, improbably struck by her in some way. It was more understandable at those times when she had dressed especially for some occasion, her stylish robes and fancy hair intentionally different from her everyday look. The contrast was like a bludger to the head; how had he not noticed? He had a bad track record with those moments when they were younger, although treasured memories of weddings and other special events attended as a couple had long since dulled the sting of those blunders.

But there were other, quieter moments; they might have stood out less, but were much more numerous for all that. For every Yule Ball or Slug Club Party, there were ten times that he had been unaccountably mesmerized by her features lit by the glow of the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, or thrown by the sound of her laughter at one of his jokes. It was like every day spent by her side, every interaction, had been a piece in a jigsaw puzzle he generally thought he knew, but every now and then he'd glance down to find he was making a totally different picture. It had made him feel unsure and wrong-footed at a time when his insecurities were always threatening to consume him. Now he could look back on that time and be grateful that they had spent those formative years together, roughing out the pieces of their personalities that would unknowingly complement each other so well, cementing a unbreakable bond.

If he had been able to think of anything other than her, he might've remembered how Fleur had looked during her pregnancy, or his sister. He had seen them both often enough during that time, exchanging amused glances with Hermione at their endless capacity to consider the minute details of baby gear and watching Molly assail them with helpful - if somewhat uncomfortably-detailed - advice. But his mind was full of his wife, his bloody brilliant wife and the miracle he was still trying to wrap his head around. How lucky he was to have loved her for so long and know her love in return; to have been with her for his entire adult life and embrace this wonderful and terrifying adventure together.

He wouldn't even let himself think, yet, of how he might measure up as a father, how he might navigate the challenges and pitfalls of parenting. Those eventualities were still somewhat nebulous and far off; for now, there were enough unknowns wrapped up in the tentative life growing inside the woman lying beside him. For now, he could content himself with his silent vow to protect them both with everything he had.

He couldn't stop himself from pressing his lips to her shoulder, closing his eyes reverently as he breathed in her scent.

She stirred with a quiet hum, her body momentarily curling and pressing back to find his warmth. She rolled onto her back in the minute space between them, side pressed against his chest and head tucked under his arm, and gazed at him in the dim light.

"Can't sleep?" she asked, her expression soft. She knew how strange it was for sleep to elude him for such a wonderful, such a hopeful reason. After so many nights fighting old battles in his sleep, waking up with her name on his throat, raw and ragged.

"No," he answered simply, knowing she understood. " _You_ should though."

He could tell from her look that she expected this, that she was fully prepared for many months of solicitous and overprotective care. Instead of answering, she stretched her face up to reach his, her kiss slow and warm. Her hand drifted through his hair as he angled his mouth against hers, the taste of her causing all thoughts of sleep to fade from his consciousness . Her free hand traced lines down his bare torso, drawing delicate circles around his nipples, gently scratching the coarse ginger hair beneath his belly button before slipping into his pants to stroke him with feather-light caresses. A groan rumbled deep in his chest and she smiled against his lips, tugging gently at the fabric of his underwear. He helped her pull them down around his knees, kicking them the rest of the way off with his long legs. His large hand spread across her hip and he had a moment to notice that she must have slipped her knickers off as well before she was kissing him again, her deft hand driving him mad with want. He gripped her tighter and began to lean over her, his weight just starting to shift when he stopped abruptly.

She pulled back at his hesitation, searching out his eyes.

"You won't hurt her," she whispered, running a soft hand down his cheek. Her fingertips stuttered and caught on the barely-there stubble.

"Her?"

"Or him," she answered with a smile just a bit bashful around the edges. "It could be a him."

It could be, of course. But he knew in that moment that he hoped it would be a her. A little girl, asking a million questions, squashing a ugly ginger cat to her chest. A little girl with a riot of hair, determined and clever. A little girl in a family full of boys - exceptional, as any child of Hermione would be. Hermione and _him_. They had made this together, this person that would share their features, their natures, would share their lives in a way that he could barely comprehend.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by rustling sheets and her hand pressing gently on his chest, the warmth of her touch bringing his focus from the enormity of his feelings back to the person that inspired so many of them. He let himself relax back into the sheets and savored her smile as she slid over him, settling her knees on each side of his hips.

"Better?" she asked as she pushed herself up. Her tone was playful, but Ron knew the question had been a serious one. They had been together for years, been intimate in countlessly creative ways and trusted each other implicitly, yet she knew that he couldn't abide anything that might hurt her. He groaned his agreement and gripped her hips, fingertips pressing into the warm flesh of her arse and the pads of his thumbs skimming over her hipbones. Accepting his reassurance, she slowly slid forward, moaning as she rubbed herself against him. The sensation of her wet heat pressing down on him was exquisite agony as she languidly teased them both. Finally she lifted up on her knees and lowered herself onto him, closing her eyes as he filled her. He watched her face through lidded eyes, searching for a sign of discomfort or concern, but all he saw was the familiar look of visceral pleasure once they were joined.

He needed to see all of her so he pushed the threadbare Canons t-shirt up, her skin somehow softer than the well-worn cotton. His large hands skimmed over her breasts as he lifted the fabric, drawing a hiss as his thumbs brushed her nipples. She helped to pull the shirt over her head and then she was gloriously bare in the moonglow; the body he knew better than his own, the body he would always desire in any form, the body that held his future.

He tried to let her set the pace, to hold back, but soon he was thrusting up to meet her in a rhythm they had perfected over the years. His hands covered her breasts, letting them slip through his fingers as they bobbed with her movements. He loved having her like this, whatever the reason - his hands free to roam her body, watching the ecstasy build on her face. Through the haze, a stray thought - had it been a night like this?...

She leaned down to kiss him hard on the mouth before her lips moved further down his jaw, his neck, finally licking and nipping at a flat nipple before straightening up again and throwing her head back. She leaned back with her hands on his thighs, rocking her hips forward more insistently as she chanted his name. Ron gripped her hips once more as her voice pitched higher and higher, helping to bring her down on him firmly as he saw her nearing the peak. He clenched his jaw as he felt his own release approaching, propelled by the feel of being inside her, the glorious sight of her riding him in the moonlight, the sound of his name on her lips and her scent all around him. Through sheer force of will he restrained himself until he felt her tighten and pulse around him, his guttural roar mixing with her cries as he finished, pressing hard into her as though he could merge their bodies into one.

She slumped forward onto him, sliding slightly to the side to tuck her head under his chin. He stroked her back with gentle fingers as he breathed hard and murmured words of love, a pleasant fuzziness filling his brain. He was almost sliding into sleep when he heard the small sniff from underneath the mass of her curls.

"Hey," he rasped in concern, alertness returning quickly. It wasn't unheard of for her (or him, really) to feel a little emotional, after, but the lingering fear that he could have hurt her in some way throbbed at the back of his mind. He nudged her head with his chin and she pulled her head back slightly so that he could make out her face.

"No," she reassured him with an almost imperceptible smile. "It's just…" she trailed off with a hitch in her breath. A powerful mix of emotions glittered in her eyes as she searched his own for the same questions. "Everything will change," she finally whispered, a mixture of awe and fear coloring her voice.

As he listened to her words, he knew in his heart that they were true and untrue at the same time. A paradox, which always seemed to drive her mad but that he, funnily enough, had become comfortable with. That she, so singular and brilliant, could have chosen him to love so completely. That you could know someone inside and out and still find a way to fall a little more in love everyday. That something could make you desperately happy and absolutely terrified at the same time. It was something he couldn't explain, but could feel.

He reached up to cover her hand on his chest, lying over his beating heart. He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed fiercely.

"Not everything."


End file.
